Rock can you hear me

This is the darkness of rock. The other darknesses are more or less empty. This darkness is full. You can put out your hand and touch it, and through it come the animals. On that December evening, Eliette Brunel, the woman amongst the three speleologist, raises her torch That was probably the first human cry in this cave for 25, years.

We saw human hands, both positive and negative impressions. And a frieze of other animals 30 feet long. It was as if time had been abolished, as if the tens of thousands of years of separation no longer existed, and we were not alone, the painters were here too.

We could feel their presence. We were disturbing them. They didn't use a binding medium, they simply mixed the colours and, then with the powder, mixed it with water.

And surprisingly it's the dampness, the continual dripping of the limestone caves which has preserved the paintings. Sometimes they blew their colours on, they made pipes from bones to blow through. For brushes they used feathers or fur, or the chewed ends of sticks.

These words were written by Master Eckhardt, who was condemned by the Pope for heresy at the beginning of the thirteenth century. At the same instant as he engendered his Son, who is equal to him in everything, he created the world. God speaks only once. He speaks as he engendered his son, for the son is the Word, and he speaks as he creates the animals.

And maybe this is because animals, who live time differently, give the impression of still living in that Now. During the last Ice Age of the planet, these hunter-painters, who were exactly like us except that they also felt themselves to be part of the "populations" of the immense herds of animals they followed, these hunter-painters, these men and women looked at the rocks here with flares and here they found the company of animals.

And the animals led them to a Now where everything met. The painters began with the rocks. They let the rocks look at them, like Demos looked at her painter. The rocks watched them by torch light. There is no sky in a rock, so there are no horizons and no right-way-up and no upside-down.

Everything in the rocks, like in our sleep, is packed, tight. A drawn line on a rock is like a liquid flowing in a vein, and the vein traces the part of the animal waiting to appear. It doesn't matter what size they are when they nudge the surface. It doesn't matter whether there's already another animal there. All that matters is how far they have come through the rock to be with the painting hand. Can you smell something? Bear, I can smell bear. Before the hunters and the painters, this cave belonged to the bears.

Perhaps this is why they chose to paint here. At first they - the painters, they, like us were intruders, trying to get closer, closer to the animals. Look up, slightly over your shoulder. There's a cave-bear, he's drawn in red. He's padding from right to left, slowly, his head down No drawing can know more than this one, it's like a self-portrait, made by the bear himself. He knows the dead and the dead know everything. Esy, thou, toi, tu, ti.

Applied to art, the idea that the early is primitive is naive. The first paintings - and these are the first paintings we know in Europe - they whisper something which is unexpected. There was no fumbling at the beginning. The astounding talent came with the insistent need. Here, under this mountain perhaps, they chanted, perhaps they talked, in what language we do not know. They certainly painted on the rock surface. Glass Ceiling T. P Thriving Must Pay.

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